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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24237586">Curbside</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatoradeeh7x3/pseuds/gatoradeeh7x3'>gatoradeeh7x3</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bad Puns, Chinese Food, Comedy, Crowley has an underground cannabis growing center, Fluff, Getting Together, Hugs, Lockdown Fic, M/M, Romance, lol, no direct references to covid, wait I should probably tag the important stuff first</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:41:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,097</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24237586</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatoradeeh7x3/pseuds/gatoradeeh7x3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes an inbox filled with curbside pickup requests for Aziraphale and Crowley to finally get together. </p>
<p>After all, Aziraphale couldn't possibly be expected to serve all these customers himself.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Curbside</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you for clicking on this fic, it must mean that my tagging Crowley's underground cannabis den didn't put you off too much lmfao <br/>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley is awoken from his lockdown slumber by an incessant beeping coming from his computer. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The demon’s relationship with computers was complicated. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> been the one to invent inappropriate pop-ups that appear at the most inopportune moments (in the presence of a parent, a boss, or a jealous partner, for example), password requirements that necessitate you picking a new combination of symbols, upper and lower-case letters, and numbers that you will inevitably forget, and batteries that jumped from completely full to dying in the blink of an eye. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>What he had not invented, however, was the email. This is where the complications set in. You see, if he had invented the email, he would have made it accessible to angels with a propensity for being as slow in technological progress as a school computer trying to open a new tab.*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*Despite the Them’s beliefs, the slowness of school computers was not Crowley’s work. The little buggers deserved a proper education. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Strictly speaking, the Angel did not </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> to have an email. It wasn’t like he filed his taxes (“I deal with quite enough paperwork from Heaven”, he’d said). Somehow, any government officials sent his way miraculously registered a deep need to tutor impoverished children and sponsor addict rehabilitation programs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley personally liked to ignore that last bit, because it tarnished the hilarious mental image he’d formed of his angel as a dirty tax fraud. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This, of course, meant that the only way that Aziraphale could be persuaded into creating an email was at Crowley’s tempting, which was remarkably easy. It just so happened that Crowley’s angel was wrapped around his little finger. All it took to convince him was two picnics under the stars, four play matinees, all of his Bells in Animal Crossing, and a promise to start a community garden for retired seniors. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Okay, so maybe it wasn’t that easy. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Or</span>
  </em>
  <span> maybe the angel had been planning to create an email from the start, and let things draw out to take advantage of Crowley’s tempting. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley doesn’t let that thought progress too far, for fear of needing to acknowledge exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>who</span>
  </em>
  <span> was wrapped around </span>
  <em>
    <span>which</span>
  </em>
  <span> fingers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>One of Aziraphale’s conditions, as set out on a horse-drawn carriage ride through Richmond Park, was that Crowley would moderate his email account, and call him about any pertinent emails. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This, unfortunately, was a necessary precaution after Aziraphale had dialled him at 2 am, sobbing about the poor Prince in Nigeria’s plight and asking what a Venmo was so that he could transfer the despondent lad some money. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Not that Crowley was complaining, of course. He’d take any opportunity to call Aziraphale in their current lockdown, especially considering the deep disappointment he’d heard in his voice at the idea of waiting for July for any further communication. Long after that phone call had ended, Crowley had sat up wondering if he should have pushed a bit further for a visit, or at least found a middle ground between shacking up together and shutting himself away for a few months by sleeping. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This pervasive worry had meant that Crowley’s sleep had been lighter than usual, and far more susceptible to being awoken by the incessant beeping coming from his computer. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley figures he’d done enough recapping in his brain to avoid getting out of his four-poster bed and acknowledge the disruption. He leverages himself out of his sheets, stumbling towards the noise to silence it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Catching a glance at his mobile phone on the way, he’s surprised to see that only four days had passed in sleep since Aziraphale’s call. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He finally arrived at his three-monitor, webcammed computer set-up. Video games, he’d found, were astonishingly great ways to anger people. Aziraphale almost hadn’t believed him when he’d told him that he could garner death threats merely by picking a certain character in Overwatch. Seeing the extent of Aziraphale’s righteous anger for him (the angel had been a few steps away from smiting the trolls), Crowley spared him the knowledge of the vitriol he’d received just by adopting a feminine voice on Fortnite’s voice chat, concerned he’d wake up the next day and find that gaming itself had been erased from existence. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He spun in his chair idly while the computer started up, stopping with a bout of dizziness when everything was ready. The beeping, it appeared, was coming from his email inbox. Not just any email inbox, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Aziraphale’s</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Fixing his eyes on the screen, he started laughing maniacally. This would be fun. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>~~~</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Crowley! To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I would like to preface what I’m about to tell you by saying that I had nothing to do with this.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s an alarming beginning to this conversation. I assume you have bad news?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I need you to promise not to shoot the messenger, okay?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, you really are scaring me now. Is everything all right?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmmnyeah, depends on your version of all right.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Is it Hell?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Have they contacted you?!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No! No. I need you to sit down. Are you sitting down? Wait, don’t sit down just yet. Get yourself some tea. Do you have tea? On second thought, maybe alcohol would be better.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Crowley, out with it!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You have… curbside pickup requests in your inbox. A lot of them.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Curbside… how could that possibly be? I haven’t attached any email to my bookshop!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I may or may not have created you a website a few years ago.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You-!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>IN MY DEFENSE, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I purposefully put incorrect shop hours so that you’d get fewer customers.” And so that Crowley could manipulate the bookshop into being miraculously empty any time he stopped by with movie tickets or dinner invitations. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A sigh of resignation on the other end. “So what does this mean? I bring books to people’s cars?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“In a mask, yeah. And gloves too.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Won’t it be irresponsible to accept banknotes? Transfer of the virus and all that?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit, that may be a problem. I’m guessing you don’t exactly have a credit card reader. Might have to get one.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a moment of silence across the line, and when Aziraphale’s voice returns, it’s tinged with hope and cunning. “I can’t possibly be expected to know how to work one of those things! Out of the question!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Erm, it’s really not that difficult-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, but the poor humans… reading would be such an enriching activity for them in these times, keep them indoors and safe.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, so learn how to-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t be amiss in asking if </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>knew how to work one of those thingamajiggers, would I?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley finally catches on with a smirk, warmth filling him from wing to wing. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I’m an expert in cashless payment. The best of the best.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And business partners, of course, would be exempt from this social distancing shebang, yes?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Spot on, angel.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Crowley, my dear… what would you say to being the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Co.</span>
  </em>
  <span> in </span>
  <em>
    <span>A. Z Fell and Co.</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose you can </span>
  <em>
    <span>COax </span>
  </em>
  <span>me into it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale groans at his pun. “That pun is below you, Crowley. Don’t make me reconsider our business partnership.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley’s smiling widely. “It’s too late. You need me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I do, don’t I?” The quiet joy is spoken softly across the line and Crowley has to avoid the instinct to coo.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll start answering emails, then. Any books you don’t want me to sell?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll send you a list. And a maple pecan danish for your troubles.” The items in question land on Crowley’s lap just then. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After a mouthful of love-filled danish, Crowley can’t bring himself to hang up on Aziraphale, choosing instead to tease. “So I’m being paid in food? You’ll find this violates my worker’s rights. I’m calling the union.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale laughs. “My dear. You really are inCOrrigible.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley suddenly finds that he’s more than capable of hanging up on the angel. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>~~~</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As soon as Crowley steps into the bookshop, he’s bowled over by five feet and ten inches of angel. Shocked by the arms suddenly snaking their way around his midriff (HE WAS THE SNAKE HERE), his arms wander aimlessly in the air, unsure what to do with themselves. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale sighs happily, burrowing his face into Crowley’s chest. “I missed you, my dear.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley’s heart is pounding at a million beats a minute, and his brain cells fizzle out of existence. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Eughhhh.” He says, eloquently. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The smell of peaches and cream, the celestial grace settling about him, and the tickle of white curls against his chin all conspire against his ability to keep his cool. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Errr… are the wings necessary?” He was surrounded with them on the eternal plane, a cocoon forming around him. His own wings ache to join with them, but he restrains them with the small amount of control he had left.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale just nuzzled further against his chest, a contented sigh escaping his pink lips. Crowley wondered if he was going insane, or if there really was vague orchestral music playing in the background. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley forces himself to pull away when he sees Aziraphale’s eyes start to glaze over. He knew angels could get drunk on love, and he didn’t want Aziraphale realizing that Crowley’s affections were the source of his growing state of intoxication. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The angel’s eyes clear up as soon as he’s a few feet away but he still looks entirely unashamed for his show of affection, that bastard. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley clears his throat, before drawing himself up and speaking with indignation he doesn’t feel. “When I said we’re on our side now, I didn’t mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘attach yourself to my side.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s eyes twinkle in amusement. “Apologies. It’s been months since I’ve seen anyone and your corporation just looked </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>cozy.” He folds his wings back, and flattens out his waistcoat. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatever. Let’s just do this thing.” He shoves his hands in his all-too-tiny skinny jean pockets to force himself not to reach out and fix a stray curl from Aziraphale’s brief stint against him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh! Yes, the first customer is pulling up as we speak! A Porsche, that’s wonderful. The two of you can discuss automobiles.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As soon as Aziraphale scurries off to find the edition of King Lear the young woman had ordered, humming familiar tunes and quietly telling his book to sanitize itself and be lovely for its new owner, Crowley lets out a deep exhale. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hidden in that deep exhale were four words:</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> “I missed you too.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>~~~</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As they waited in comfortable silence for the third customer in the back room, Aziraphale fussed at his blue tartan mask, which was leaving deep pink impressions into his pale flesh. Crowley, sprawled on the couch, made sure to miracle both it and his own jet black mask with red strings to rest comfortably on their faces for the duration of the day if they knew what was good for them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale looked up from his book, noticing the change. He sent Crowley a knowing look and a grateful smile. The clock behind Crowley’s head catches his eye, though, and after he notices the time, he sets his paperback down primly with an embarrassed flush. “Oh my. I’m being unforgivably rude, sitting about and reading while you’re here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t mind, you know that.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, but it’s been a while and I’d like to know what’s new with you. How have you been spending your days?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley sat up, trying to figure out which anecdote to go with.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> “I suppose I can tell you about my new marijuana plants,” he drawls.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “You’ve been- That’s quite illegal, my dear boy.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not really one for the rules, myself. Don’t tell me you go in for all that bullshit?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale sits up, affronted. “Of course not! I’ve never agreed with cannabis criminalization, would be quite hypocritical with the amount of alcohol I consume. I’m just confused. Do you use it yourself?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I’ve been giving it to children to traffic in vulnerable communities to turn a profit. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I’ve been using it. Become a bit of a cannabisseur. Very pleasant effects. I’m sure you’d enjoy it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale hesitates. “Perhaps… I could be tempted. Tell me about the growing process.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, first of all, not all that different from your everyday fern. The only difference is you have to really scare the THC into them…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>~~~</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The fifth customer rolls up in an orange Volvo. Her name is Aster, and her white hair flies gloriously in the air as she rolls down the window. Her crow’s feet wrinkle as she sees them already waiting outside. She sighs in relief as she sees that they’re masked and gloved. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Thank God, you wouldn’t believe how many businesses have been cutting corners on safety. My wife has an auto-immune disorder, but she just needed to have her Virginia Woolf fix. You know how it is.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley, recalling how his angel had run into the burning Library of Alexandria to save a book, nods in complete agreement. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale, recalling how his demon would travel halfway across the world to save and keep  the last of an endangered plant species that the humans hadn’t noticed dying deep in the jungle, also nods. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aster laughs at their faces as the payment goes through, knowing there’s a story behind the looks they secretly cast each other. “So who’s A.Z. Fell?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale steps forward. “That’s me. This is my </span>
  <em>
    <span>partner</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Crowley.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aster doesn’t need to see his mouth to know he’s beaming with happiness at getting to call the other man his partner. She can’t help but tease. “Just business partners or is there something else there?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley’s words sputter like an engine, and Aziraphale’s mouth opens and closes under the mask like a fish in water. She spares them the awkwardness with a laugh, remembering her own first days with Maryam. Speaking of Maryam…</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“My wife’s great and all, but she’s getting hangry and neither of us can cook to save our lives. Know any good restaurants around here?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale, grateful for the change in subject, launches into a speech in praise of the Chinese restaurant down the block. “Their business has gone down because of the dreadful ignorance they’ve been subjected to, but I can tell you that their chicken chop suey is to discorporate for.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley coughs beside him. “To die for. He meant to die for.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aster casts them both a weird glance. “Alright, well. I’m going to go get some Chinese food. Thanks for the service, boys. And Crowley,” she lowers her voice to address him privately, “get the poor man some Chinese food.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They both turn their heads to look at Aziraphale, whose eyes were zoned out into the distance at the thought of egg rolls and steamed buns, his hand idly coming up to pat his empty stomach dejectedly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley snickers with unmistakable fondness. “Will do.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>~~~</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As the two of them relax after a long day of serving customers, Crowley watches Aziraphale bustle about to get plates for their massive takeout feast. Crowley tried to help, but Aziraphale had shoved him down into the couch with a glass of kaoliang wine to sip on. “You’ve been wonderful in assisting me today, my dear. Do sit.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley tried not to dwell on the way the firm pressure Aziraphale applied had sent his mind spiralling into wild fantasies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The angel needs to stop fussing. He’d spent the last fifteen minutes agonizing over finding the perfect light setting and asking Crowley which utensil he’d prefer, as if he gave a damn whether he used bamboo, wood, or metal chopsticks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, Aziraphale settles into his armchair, digging into the food with barely restrained primness. Crowley can tell Aziraphale was hungry by the way the napkin he used to pat his plush lips after a sip of soup wasn’t folded perfectly, the corners failing to align. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Blasphemy!” he yells, pointing at the evidence of Aziraphale’s misdemeanours, and he fights a smile as Aziraphale laughs indulgently in response. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As the laughter faded away, though, the angel’s expression was replaced with sadness. He tries to fight it down, forcing a pathetic smile, before giving up on the futile effort. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t suppose,” he murmurs sadly, “there are any more pickup requests?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley had checked his phone dozen times that day, and had come to the same depressing realization. “No, none.” He laughs uncomfortably. “Bet you’re happy you don’t have to sell any more of your precious books, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Except Aziraphale looks far from happy, and he casts a disdainful look at the shelves surrounding them as if to say, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’d sell you all right now.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of saying that, though, Aziraphale laughs, equally uncomfortable. “And I bet you’re happy you can go back to sleep.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley refuses to blink, thinking that he’d never close these eyelids again if it meant he could stay. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The silence stretches out between them, charged with unspoken words. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale shifts in his seat, hands wringing at each other, unable to meet Crowley’s eyes. “The invitation you extended earlier, to stay at my place… did you mean that?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley’s throat thickens with gratitude for the Angel’s bravery, and knew he had to be brave in turn. “Of course I did.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And… does it still stand?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It always will. There for you to take it, at your own pace.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They both remember all too painfully a comment about Crowley moving too fast. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale finally looks up, meeting the eyes that Crowley refuses to close any more.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I’d like that. For you to stay. Not just for the lockdown.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley starts to wonder if it’s possible for demons to get drunk on love too, because he was already halfway there, intoxicated by the endless possibilities opening to him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He laughs, tears threatening to fall. “You do know that means I’ll be bringing my marijuana plants with me?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s laugh burbles out with relief, joyful that his advance had been accepted. “I want everything. Throne room, movie theatre, </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley draws closer, kneeling at the foot of Aziraphale’s armchair and cupping his angel’s face to bring them at eye level. “You have space?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s eyes hold his in a warm embrace, as if to welcome him home. “I’ll make space.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale gives up on subtlety and pulls him up and into his lap, where they wrap around each other, wings and arms and eternal graces tangling into a lovely mess. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley whispers a laugh into Aziraphale’s ear. The angel pulls back to look at him curiously. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley smiles demonically. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Time to enter CO-habitation.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The moan Aziraphale makes at the pun is not the only moan he makes that night.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Inspired by the hilarious mental image of Aziraphale trying to do curbside pickup requests lmaooo<br/>As always, kudos and comments much appreciated! &lt;3 (aka tell me if any of these jokes actually made you laugh lol)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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